


Scenes From a Theoretical Night

by yuletide_archivist



Category: 1776 (1972)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-26
Updated: 2009-10-26
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story by Ned S. Malfoy</p><p>(Ensemble.) Tying up some loose ends, making up with some old friends. Warnings for Franklin-style inappropriateness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes From a Theoretical Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Michelle

 

 

Disclaimer: This was written solely for non-profit fun and quasi-historical laughs. Inaccuracies abound, but hopefully still remain consistent, more or less, with the spirit of it all. Consider this an affectionate parody and homage. No inebriates were harmed in the making of this story. 

***

_I. Late Afternoon._

Franklin nudged Adams' arm.

"John," he whispered delightedly. "John!"

"What, Franklin."

"They're doing it again! Look!"

"Oh for God's sake, Franklin, sometimes you have the maturity level of a twelve-year old. They're just touching each other on the arm."

"But they do it so frequently! You know, this supports my theory that--"

"Yes, yes, I know your theory. And I think it is atrocious. They are two _married men_ , Franklin. Your imagination is simply out of control."

Pause.

"They're doing it again."

Even the greatest of minds risked falling into decrepitude at some point, Adams reckoned. Perhaps in Franklin's case, that point had already been reached.

He decided he would strive for patience.

"Don't be absurd," Adams whispered back. "You know as well as I do that Tom and Richard are simply friends."

"So are Whipple and Bartlett, but _you've_ seen the looks they give each other."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I've only ever seen brotherly looks of affection between them."

"Oh _really_ , John?" said Franklin with barely-contained mirth. "Then never have two brothers seemed more incestuous!"

Adams stopped striving.

"Damn it, Franklin," he hissed, "stop pestering me this _instant_ before--"

"GENTLEMEN!" Hancock's booming voice resounded across the room. "Would you be so kind as to share your indubitably _fascinating_ discussion with the rest of us?"

Shoving visions of Franklin's sudden yet timely death out of his mind, Adams grinned in the hope that some brilliant words would soon come along to match that the confidence of that grin. 

"Um," Adams began. Twisting the truth was not foreign to him, but he was never terribly proficient at lying outright. "We were... er..."

"We were just talking," Franklin interjected smoothly, "about hosting a send-off for our dear Mr. Dickinson. I suggested we should try to get everyone together at the City Tavern this evening for some nocturnal libations, but our Mr. Adams here feels it is too short a notice." He looked back at Adams. "Isn't that right, John?"

"Er, right," said Adams, blinking, then with more confidence: "Right! Far, _far_ too short a notice. Mr. Dickinson would surely prefer to spend his remaining hours at home with his family, would he not?"

"Actually," Wilson piped up, "he won't be departing for the militia for at least a week." All eyes turned to the lone figure in grey sitting at the end of the Pennsylvania table. "Mr. Dickinson has been quite preoccupied with paperwork and other dull matters of consequence as of late. I'm sure he wouldn't mind a respite from that drudgery for a proper good-bye."

Intrigued, the other delegates began talking amongst themselves. Franklin took this opportunity to give Adams another nudge on the arm.

"Did you hear Wilson's tone of voice? It certainly seems as if _he_ would enjoy a proper--"

"I am going to pretend," Adams gritted out, teeth still clenched in a grin, "that I did not hear what you were just about to finish saying."

And for good measure, he gave Franklin a hearty kick in the shins.

"John, that _hurt_! My leg and I shall never forgive you."

"Don't pout, Franklin, it's unbecoming for a man of your age."

Before Franklin could respond with a pithy aphorism about aging, Hopkins spoke up from the front of the room.

"Benjy, I second that idea of yours! What say you, gentlemen? Let's send our young soldier off in style!"

A roar of assent resounded throughout the room as Adams thought bemusedly about how none of _his_ proposals to the Congress were ever met with such immediate and wholehearted support. He listened with half an ear when Hancock banged his gavel and announced something about meeting at the City Tavern that evening, then snapped back to attention upon hearing his name:

"Now, Mr. Adams, Dr. Franklin," said Hancock, gesturing to the back of the room, "as originators of the idea for tonight's festivities, you two are hereby appointed to the, hmm, the... Inviting John Dickinson To His Own Farewell Gathering Committee!" He glanced off to the side. "No need to write that down, Mr. Thomson." 

"WHAT? You're damn right he doesn't need to write that down!" Adams yelled, slamming his hand down on the table as Congress erupted into laughter all around him. "Honestly, Mr. Hancock--!"

But before Adams could finish protesting, Hancock had banged his gavel with a final bang and declared: "Meeting _adjourned_!" 

As the other delegates arose from their seats, Adams turned to look at Franklin with the most withering glare he could muster. He barely even registered the consoling pats on the shoulder that Lee and Jefferson gave him as they stepped out the door.

" _Now_ look at what you've done," Adams said. 

Franklin didn't even have the decency to look abashed. Instead, he clapped his friend on the back and said, "Cheer up, John! It's been a while since you've had some fun, anyway."

* * *

_II. Later in the Afternoon._

The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky as Adams and Franklin set out towards the wealthy Quaker neighborhood where Dickinson lived. Their destination: Fairhill, the comfortable and lavish estate that had been in Mrs. Dickinson's family for generations. Adams still remembered its location. He had dined there before, sat amazed in its library before, blithered and blustered with its master long before politics got in the way of it all. Lovely place. Adams had absolutely no desire for a return visit. 

He tried to explain his reluctance to Franklin as they stepped out onto the street. There was a difference, he postulated, between delivering a message to an acquaintance and delivering a message to a former friend-turned-antagonist-turned into... he lacked a word for it, but "something uncomfortable" had to be in the definition somewhere. An acquaintance, he elaborated, was a neutral way to describe someone you knew. And whatever Dickinson was to him could not be described as "neutral." 

Franklin didn't understand his social anxiety, but then again, Franklin was one of those rare souls who never seemed to get embarrassed by anything. He just smiled in that all-knowing way of his and let Adams insist that they walk the distance to Fairhill.

"How far away is it?" Franklin asked.

"Not too far," Adams replied, shouldering his cane. "A little over five miles."

"A _little_ \-- but that will take us over an hour!" 

"At least an hour and a half," Adams corrected in a chipper tone. Upon seeing his friend's expression, Adams scoffed: "Don't look so aggrieved, Franklin! A brisk walk will do _wonders_ for your health and general disposition. There's nothing like going out for a ramble in the warm seasons. I don't know why others don't do it more often."

Franklin eyed him thoughtfully. "Most people aren't so insane, I'd imagine."

"Most people," Adams retorted, "could benefit from a lengthy walk every day. It's fun, restorative, and... why are you looking at me like that, Franklin?"

"Fun?" Franklin said. "You think a walk of five miles is _fun_?"

"Well, no," said Adams, "that's not quite true."

"Oh, good."

"I prefer longer distances, actually. Anywhere between five to ten suits me perfectly."

"Five to ten," Franklin repeated. "Pray tell, John, what else do you consider 'fun'?"

"Reading improving literature and political pamphlets," said Adams promptly. "Catching up on correspondence with Abigail. Oh! And writing a lengthy journal entry before bed." He paused, frowning. " _Why_ do you persist in looking at me as if I've stepped on a baby animal, Franklin?"

"Because, John, I suppose that is how I look when I am pitying someone." He shook his head. "Tell you what: I will not rest until we have gotten you absolutely, irrevocably crump-footed this evening."

"Nonsense! I am perfectly capable of having merriment without it being forced upon me."

"Yes, of course," said Franklin reassuringly, "but when was the last time you enjoyed yourself socially?"

Adams rubbed the side of his neck with his cane, pondering. After a moment, he said, "Well, we did have a decent time of it in New Brunswick, didn't we?" 

(Haggard soldiers surrounded them, the outlines of skulls apparent on every face they could see. When that ragtag ensemble managed to shoot a flock of ducks in unison -- magnificent unison! -- Adams felt like weeping in relief. He later did so in embarrassing volume when he, Franklin, and Chase got together for drinks that evening, but he didn't remember any of it and his two companions decided it would be best to never speak of those hours again.)

"At least, I think we did," Adams continued. "Chase was certainly pleased with the soldiers' marksmanship, that's for certain."

"Well, he wasn't the only one," said Franklin.

("THOSE DUCKS WERE SENT BY GOD," Adams had declared, staring intently into Chase's face. "GOD, I TELL YOU." In the firelight and lamplight of the tavern, his manic birdlike features looked even more possessed than usual. 

"God, you say?" Chase calmly continued cutting his food, which was a more difficult task than usual due to the Massachusetts delegate leaning on his right arm. 

"YES. YES, IT IS A SIGN, MY DEAR SAMUEL. A DIVINE PORTENT OF FORTUNE!" Adams then proceeded to sob into Chase's shoulder. "THANK GOD FOR GOD!")

"...Anyway," Franklin continued, "part of our success with Chase was that, at the time, you were friendly and quite agreeable. He confessed to me that he had never seen you in a more likable light."

(After Chase had told Adams and Franklin that he would gladly vote Yea on the question of independence, Adams clapped him on the shoulder, tears welling up once more. "SAMUEL CHASE," he said thickly, "YOU ARE A CREDIT TO YOUR PEOPLE AND TO ALL OF MARY-LAND. HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU HOW COMFORTING IT IS FOR ME TO KNOW THAT YOU WILL ALWAYS HAVE A PLATE OF FOOD WITH YOU IN CONGRESS. NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS, I KNOW THAT, IF I LOOK AT YOUR SIDE OF THE ROOM, I WILL SEE YOU EATING. O BLESSED CONSISTENCY. I LOVE YOU, CHASE. I LOVE YOU AND YOUR LOVE OF FOOD." 

As Adams dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief, Chase looked over at Franklin with an astonished grin. "This is amazing, Benjamin. Why can't he be more like this when he's sober?"

Franklin sipped a thoughtful sip from his mug, then concluded: "I don't think his vocal chords could handle it.")

"What are you saying, Franklin? That I must imbibe alcohol to be likable?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort," Franklin replied quickly. "It was the _effect_ of the alcohol that really mattered then: the way it took the abrasive edge off your rather forceful personality. You can be sociable when you want to be, John, but you need more practice. Tonight could be a good opportunity for that."

"I suppose," Adams sighed. Then he smiled. "You know, you do have a point. I would like to get to know some of our fellow delegates better. It's been a while since I've been able to converse with any of them outside of Congress."

"That's the spirit! Do you have anyone in mind?"

"No one in particular," said Adams. He slid his cane down from his shoulder and held it in both hands, examining it. "Dr. Hall, perhaps."

Something about the tone of that statement, coupled with a sudden increased jauntiness in Adams' stride, gave Franklin pause. "Interesting," he commented, then said no more.

***

It didn't take long for Adams to notice the sun beating down upon his uncovered hair. Experimentally, he reached up to place a hand on the back of his head -- boiling! Served him right, he supposed. Abigail often teased him about forgetting his tri-cornered hat in the summer. _Aren't you hotheaded enough already?_ she would say with a pretty smile. _I know, I know,_ he would respond. _Dark hair is more susceptible to the heat, a stubborn fact I always manage to forget until the sun reminds me._ And then Abigail would chuckle fondly, stroke his hair, and firmly place his hat in his hands, brushing their fingers together...

And then he heard Franklin's voice calling him back to the present.

"John," Franklin was saying. "John."

"What is it, Franklin."

"I just had the most amusing idea about Richard and Tom."

"What about them?"

"Well, they're both such _tall_ lads, aren't they? Just imagine if they were able to have children together."

"What--"

"I believe it was Aristotle who first proposed the notion of inheriting a combination of parental traits. With two tall parents, the offspring would presumably also be tall. Perhaps even taller than their predecessors!"

"Franklin--"

"And if they, in turn, mate with other tall humans, then eventually the Lee-Jefferson line will produce a race of titans in America!"

"I don't even," Adams began, then closed his eyes. "What are you -- did you drink some of Hopkins' rum today, by any chance?"

"No, sir, I have been perfectly sober all day."

"Right," said Adams, opening his eyes again to give Franklin an incredulous look. 

Franklin returned the look.

They then continued looking at each other until Adams snapped, " _What_ , Franklin?"

"Aren't you going to comment any further? On my idea? No?"

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction," Adams said, suppressing a smile. Like it or not, Franklin's idea did put a rather interesting image in his head of giant copper-haired men roaming the earth, walking through forests and towering over the treetops. And they would need wives, of course, so there also had to be giant copper-haired women, slightly shorter than the men, but still quite tall...

"Speaking of Richard," Franklin remarked, "it's rather convenient of him to arrive in Philadelphia today, isn't it?" 

"Mm-hmm," Adams said absently. The giants were now crushing crops underneath their house-sized feet. He wondered if he could share that image with Abigail without actually having to tell her about the indecent idea that inspired it. Perhaps he could just say that Franklin wondered what _Jefferson's_ children would be like, which would permit him to omit any mention of Lee's hypothetical involvement. Anyway, _how_ would it be plausible for Lee and Jefferson to - well, _who_ would be the - oh dear, he should probably stop that line of thought.

Adams returned his attention to Franklin, who had been waiting patiently for him to snap out of his reverie. 

"It's also rather nice of Tom to put Richard up for the night," Franklin said.

Adams laughed. "Nice of Tom to put up with him _ever_ , you mean."

"No, I mean for the night, John. The _night_." Franklin raised his eyebrows at Adams, who blinked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before frowning in total comprehension.

"...Dis-gusting," Adams said. "And to think I once respected you for your inquisitive and imaginative mind." Nevertheless, the corners of his mouth quirked upward. "That bawdy hinting wasn't even up to your usual creative standards, Franklin. Rather disappointing for a so-called sage."

"Ah, forgive me, John. It's been a long day." Then, Franklin's smile broadened. "I'll let you know if I come up with something better after supper."

"Oh, no."

"What?"

" _Don't_ tell me you intend to spout off these ridiculous theories of yours at the gathering tonight."

"But they're so amusing!"

"I don't find them amusing at all."

"Tut-tut, sir, I shall not tolerate such a fib, for I _distinctly_ recall some muffled chortling the other day when I shared my suspicions regarding Hancock, Thomson, and a certain flyswatter."

"But that's different," Adams protested. "Corporal punishment has a certain inherent dark humor all its own."

"Ah, of course," said Franklin. "How could I forget. Incidentally, Stephen also enjoyed that particular theory."

" _Did_ he, now."

"To the point where he snorted rum up his nose upon hearing it!" As per usual, Franklin was delighted with the potency of his ideas. "I had to lend him a handkerchief to dry off the mess."

"Wonderful," said Adams, scrunching up his face. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear before suppertime. That was _just_ the thing."

"Oh, stop overreacting, John. You're almost as bad as Dickinson in that regard."

Adams placed a hand on his chest in mock outrage. "Me, sir? _Overreact_? How dare you make such a vile accusation. Besides, Dickinson's far more of a theatrical prig than I am, what with his extravagant gestures and even more extravagant rhetoric. The man is absolutely in _love_ with the sound of his voice."

"And you're not?" asked Franklin mildly.

" _Ha_ , sir, _ha_. Honestly, though, I don't know why he didn't just run off with a theater troupe when he was younger and spare us all this trouble." Adams suddenly stopped walking. "Oh, speak of the devil -- we're here."

They had finally arrived at Fairhill. It was just as expensive-looking as Adams had remembered. 

"Goodness," said Franklin, clearly impressed with the ivy-covered buildings, the lofty trees, and the majestic gardens visible from the street.

"It's just like every other extravagant Quaker mansion in this neighborhood," said Adams with a sniff. (Of course, he too had been impressed with the spectacle of it all on his first visit, but he needn't let Franklin know about that.)

They knocked on the door and waited.

And waited.

Adams stuck his hands in his coat pockets and frowned at the still-closed door. 

"You don't think they might be... busy, perhaps?" he said.

"Busy how, John?"

"You know. Like the Jeffersons...?"

"Oh, that sort of busy."

"Yes, that sort of busy."

"So you were thinking about Dickinson having --"

" _No I wasn't._ "

"How saucy of you, John! Contemplating a man in such a manner while standing outside his very own house."

"Forget it, Franklin, just forget it," said Adams, turning crimson.

Mercifully, at that point, the door swung open and Dickinson appeared just as he always did -- trim, imperial, and clothed in yet another shade of green. 

"Well, well, well," said Dickinson, leaning against the doorframe. "Dr. Franklin and Mr. Adams. What gives me the pleasure?" 

To Adams' surprise, the usual pomposity had vanished from Dickinson's voice, leaving behind only a sort of resigned bemusement in its place. So he did what he always did in a moment of social awkwardness: grin uncertainly.

"What, no jibes about New England noise coming to darken your door?" Adams asked. 

Silence. 

Dickinson blinked slowly, like a recently-awoken child who had not quite finished the waking process. 

Franklin gave Adams a pitying look before asking, "Have we come at a bad time, Mr. Dickinson? You look rather tired." 

"I suppose I am," said Dickinson, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Tired, that is. How shall I put this? It just so happens that my wife and I had a rather long talk last night." He tilted his head so it rested against the doorframe. "And for the past few nights, actually. She was none too pleased to hear of my decision to join the militia."

"Oh," said Adams, grin faltering. He would not wish a displeased wife on anyone, much less his worst enemy. Not that Dickinson was his enemy anymore, he supposed. In any case, knowing how much Dickinson valued his wife's opinion, Adams could only imagine how wretched the man must have been feeling. 

As Dickinson gazed at the sky, Adams took this opportunity to look at Franklin. _Say something,_ he mouthed. 

"All the more reason for you to go out tonight!" said Franklin with more cheer than necessary. "You see, Mr. Dickinson, we have been appointed by Mr. Hancock himself to invite you to a farewell gathering, in your honor, at City Tavern this evening. Our fellow delegates look forward to sharing some nocturnal libations with you, and in my humble opinion, sir, you certainly could use a drink."

More silence. 

As Dickinson continued his skyward gaze, Adams and Franklin exchanged uncomfortable glances. _Your turn,_ Franklin mouthed. 

"Er, please come," said Adams, smiling resolutely at Dickinson's blank countenance. "After all, what kind of farewell gathering would it _be_ without the person for whom... the gathering... er... gathers?" 

At this, the corner of Dickinson's mouth twitched and Adams felt his face grow hot again. Then Dickinson chuckled. It was a pleasant sort of chuckle, warmer and far nicer than the condescending cackle Adams was accustomed to hearing from him.

"Very well, then, gentlemen!" Dickinson said, returning his gaze to the two men on his doorstep. "With such an eloquent invitation, how can I refuse?" He gave himself a little push away from the doorframe to stand upright. "Better than trying to determine how little of my life I can pack into a bag, anyway."

"Oh," said Adams.

"Excellent!" said Franklin. 

"Besides," said Dickinson, "my wife has just taken the girls to visit a cousin of hers for the next two days. I would much rather have the company of others, at the moment, than my own." He clapped his hands together. "Well, no matter! Let us speak of happier things, such as supper."

"Supper?" Adams repeated.

"Yes, supper!" Dickinson hesitated briefly. "You two haven't eaten yet, have you?"

"Well, no, we haven't--"

"Good!" said Dickinson, talking merrily over Adams. "Allow me to fetch my things, gentlemen, then we can leave at once." He raised a finger to them as he ducked back inside. "I shall return shortly." 

Adams and Franklin gaped at the now-empty doorway, then at each other. 

"He just invited himself to supper with us, didn't he," said Adams, feeling as if he had just been blindsided by a reckless carriage. 

"That he did," Franklin answered, sounding equally bewildered. 

"What if we had other plans?" Adams asked, suddenly affronted.

"But we don't have any other plans."

Adams threw his hands up in the air. "It's the _principle_ of the thing, Franklin. One shouldn't simply _impose_ himself like that! No regard for others, that man. No regard at all." Then, as Franklin was about to respond, Adams held up a hand. "All right, perhaps that was a trifle harsh. The man is obviously in need of some sympathetic peers this evening and it would be irresponsible for us to deny him that small measure of civility."

Franklin beamed. "Good for you, John." He gestured into the air with his cane. "Tonight," he declared, "we shall put the followers of Dionysius to shame!"

Adams nodded. He was beginning to look forward to some inebriation.

***

Soon enough, Dickinson re-emerged, mentioning that his wife had taken their usual carriage and servants with her so he would be joining Adams and Franklin on foot. He held a hat in the crook of his arm, which would have been perfectly normal were it not for the other hat already perched on top of his head. This detail did not escape Adams' attention.

" _Two_ hats, Dickinson?" Adams asked. "Do you fear so much for the one on your head that you need to bring a spare?"

Dickinson locked the door behind him with a click, then turned around. "No," he said, walking forward until he stood directly in front of Adams. "This is for you." And with that, he merrily slapped the hat down upon Adams' head. 

Confused beyond all reckoning, Adams could think of nothing else to do but to readjust the hat so it didn't cover his eyes. He then peered up into Dickinson's self-satisfied face. "What...?"

"It's over an hour until sunset, you madman!" And Dickinson gave him a patronizing pat on the head, accidentally pushing the hat down over Adams' eyebrows. "Aren't you hotheaded enough already?"

"Hotheaded?" Adams echoed weakly, briefly losing his composure as Dickinson brushed past him to get to the street. Something fissured in Adams' brain upon hearing that all too familiar phrase. He wasn't sure what to feel. Insulted? Uncomfortable? Insulted _and_ uncomfortable? If there were two things he never wished to consider simultaneously, they were 1) his dearest friend and 2) his worst enemy, both telling him the same endearment (for he supposed that, if anything, it _was_ an endearment). 

He watched Dickinson's retreating back for a moment before readjusting the hat again, only to have the blasted thing sink gently over his brow once more. On top of everything, of course Dickinson's hat would be too large for his head. 

Wait, too large...?

Leaving a chortling Franklin behind, Adams dashed down the street until he caught up with the man, then said, "At least I don't have a giant head!" 

He received an incredulous laugh in response. "Excuse me?" 

Adams indicated the borrowed hat, which had sunk to the tops of his eyes without any further assistance. "See? Too large. You, sir, are in possession of a fat cranium."

Dickinson grinned. "I cannot help it if my brain is larger than yours, Mr. Adams."

"It isn't the _size_ of the brain but what one does with it that matters," Adams retorted, before remembering that this was probably not what Franklin had in mind when he suggested that Adams become more sociable. He paused to reflect upon this for a moment, and to reflect upon other things, such as how he and Dickinson were near enough to brush elbows. The last time they were within such close proximity to one another in public, Dickinson had refused to even acknowledge his presence. And now, they were on their way to supper together.

He supposed this was progress. 

Adams cleared his throat. "On second thought, Mr. Dickinson, why don't we let bygones be bygones?" He took a deep breath, then let it go. "I thank you for lending me your hat," he went on. "Though it was unsolicited."

"Really?" said Dickinson, turning to look at him. "I mean, you're welcome." 

He smiled lopsidedly, Adams noticed. One corner of the mouth was higher than the other, resulting in a somewhat crooked expression. Fitting. 

"Are you certain you don't have some biting remark simmering in that smaller brain of yours?" Dickinson asked.

"I do happen to have such a remark," Adams replied haughtily, "but I choose not to say it." He flicked his gaze upward to look into Dickinson's eyes, daring the latter to question him. 

And Dickinson looked back, maintaining eye contact for what surely had to be longer than necessary. It was a habit that had annoyed Adams ever since he first noticed it during one of their many arguments. Just as he began wondering whether he should be the first to look away, Dickinson looked back to the road, crooked smile still in place.

"I'm sure it was positively scathing," Dickinson said reassuringly.

* * *

  


_III. Evening._

As twilight descended and the lamplighters set about their duties, Adams felt more at ease. He had expected the walk to be excruciatingly awkward and was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn't. For one thing, with Dickinson around, Franklin seemed less inclined to verbalize his usual litany of inappropriate thoughts. Adams hoped this trend would continue. 

Then, right in the middle of a particularly engrossing discussion regarding the metaphorical merits of violins, Dickinson abruptly turned left and began walking down another street.

Adams held out a hand to halt Franklin, then called out, "Mr. Dickinson! Where are you going? City Tavern does not lie in that direction!" 

Dickinson stopped and turned around, looking perplexed that the other two men had not followed him immediately. "I know," he said simply. 

They stared at each other for a moment, waiting.

Adams sighed. "Surprising as it may sound, Mr. Dickinson, I am unable to read your mind -- though I certainly would appreciate such an ability. Do you wish to eat supper elsewhere?"

"Yes," said Dickinson, "at a different tavern. It's down this street." He seemed to reflect upon these words, then shook his head, as if to clear it. "My apologies, gentlemen. I had forgotten myself for a moment. James would always be at my side no matter where I turned, hence it was never a necessity to inform him... I mean, his tastes so coincided with mine that I rarely ever had to _inquire_ as to his preferences regarding... oh, dear Lord. I'm babbling, aren't I?"

Pause.

"No, of course not," said Franklin in kind denial.

"Of course not," Adams echoed. 

"It's just that I'd much prefer to have a glass of wine or two before we get to City Tavern," Dickinson explained. He twisted his cane in his hands, as if he were wringing it.

"I don't understand," said Adams. "You wish to get a drink _before_ we go drinking?"

"Yes," said Dickinson, his lean figure tense with embarrassment. "Very much."

Before Adams could ask why, Franklin placed a hand against his back and gently pushed him forward. "Don't question him, John," he murmured so that only Adams could hear. "He obviously doesn't want to face our fellow delegates quite yet."

"But _why_?" Adams whispered back, falling into step with Franklin's serene pace. "He has nothing to fear. They _want_ to see him. That is essentially the foundation of tonight's enterprise."

"True, but that does not mean he reciprocates their enthusiasm."

"Oh. Very well, then. I suppose we shouldn't keep him waiting."

As they approached, Dickinson's shoulders sagged slightly in relief. "Thank you, gentlemen." His lopsided smile returned. "Tell you what! I'll pay for supper." 

When they protested that, as the guest of honor, he ought not to pull out his purse that evening, Dickinson would have none of it.

"But if you really _must_ insist on feeling so awful," he said, "you can purchase my spirits for me whenever we do arrive at City Tavern. Fair enough?"

They supposed so.

Cheered, Dickinson revived their earlier conversation as they walked through the darkening streets. "So you were saying, Dr. Franklin, that you were quite certain Mrs. Jefferson had invented a new euphemism?"

"Ah, there you have me, Mr. Dickinson. It was a rather interesting metaphor..."

***

Supper was an agreeable affair. The tavern that Dickinson selected had an excellent menu, featuring some of the freshest turkey that Adams had ever tasted. They sat at a round wooden table off to the side, away from the noise and smoke of the main crowd. Somewhere along the second or third glass of Madeira, they abandoned the use of formal prefixes, and, indeed, Adams did manage to feel more genial with each additional sip of wine. He even took it upon himself to warn Dickinson about Jefferson's attempts at brewing liquor. 

"Tom will try to press it upon you," Adams said, "but avoid it at all costs. It stinks. It's worse than the first drafts of the Declaration." 

"And that's not an exaggeration by any means," Franklin added. "Adams and I have both sampled it. We've managed to survive the experience, albeit barely."

"Oh, come, come," said Dickinson, laughing. "How bad could it possibly be?"

"'Bad' doesn't even begin to describe it," said Franklin.

"It's atrocious," Adams said. "Absolutely atrocious."

"Can you describe the flavor?"

"No. An accurate description is beyond words."

Dickinson tilted his head, eying Adams shrewdly. "Now you're just being difficult, sir. Was it too bitter? Too strong?"

"Sir, that pitiful excuse for beer is the thing that's difficult," Adams said. "There is nothing truly _analogous_ to that liquid horror, Dickinson. NOTHING analogous! It is unlike anything you will ever fear to taste in this mortal WORLD!" 

"Ho, Spartacus," said Franklin. He placed an admonishing hand on Adam's arm and shook it gently. "Calm yourself."

"Sorry, sorry," Adams muttered, tugging his arm away. "I just happen to have strong feelings about beer." 

"No matter," said Dickinson mildly. "Though I still find this all quite hard to believe. Mr. Jefferson's a man of refined taste -- surely he would be the first to know of any inadequacies?"

"Well, that's the thing," said Franklin. "Tom seems so used to his 'refined' taste that he neglects to take the taste of anyone else into account. How his poor wife puts up with it is beyond our reckoning."

"But in the unfortunate event that you do happen to drink Tom's beer," Adams added, "please don't mention the taste. We don't want to hurt his feelings."

"Hurt his feelings, sir?" said Dickinson with an incredulous smile. "Why not give him an honest opinion! Certainly he would appreciate that more. After all, honesty is a virtue, Adams. You're the last person I would expect to withhold honest criticism." He leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. "You know, that's one of the things I've always admired about you. How _did_ old Polonius phrase it? Ah. 'To thine own self be true.' How can you be true to yourself if you're not true to others, Adams?" 

Adams could only gape slightly, fork frozen mid-air on the way to his mouth. Few things left him more flabbergasted than a stealth compliment.

The sight made Dickinson laugh. "Good Lord, sir! Had I known that a few mere words of flattery would suffice to silence you, I'd have uttered them months ago."

Franklin leaned forward and cradled his chin in his hands with an impish delight, eyes darting back and forth. 

Adams mumbled something about compassion and working around the truth, then became quite taken with the intricacies of the metalwork that had gone into shaping his fork. He stared at it in silence, noting the minute nicks caused by countless knives. 

Amused, Dickinson turned to Franklin. "There's another thing I don't quite comprehend," he said. "You've mentioned that City Tavern has some of this fabled beer on tap after Mrs. Jefferson sent up the barrels. Surely the other patrons would have complained about the taste by now?"

"You'd think so," said Franklin. "However, once people find out the beer is from Jefferson, their complaints instantly vanish and their reviews magically transform into praise. I can't imagine why. Perhaps his popularity outweighs peoples' common sense."

"Perhaps," said Dickinson. "I suspect it has more to do with his absurd handsomeness."

"Ah, yes," Franklin agreed. "There is that."

"Pardon?" said Adams, looking up from his intense analysis of the tavern's silverware. "Handsome? _Tom_?"

Dickinson laughed. "Adams, you _are_ a marvel. Hadn't you noticed? He's a rather conventionally handsome man."

"What? I... suppose? If you like the tall, symmetrical, gangling youth type."

"Do you?" asked Dickinson. He took a sip of wine, scrutinizing Adams over the rim of the glass. "Like that type, I mean."

"I... what?"

"Perhaps I should rephrase the question in illustrative terms," said Dickinson, setting down the glass. He thought a moment, then said, "Say you were a painter. A portrait artist. Would you think Jefferson was aesthetically pleasing enough to paint?"

Adams stared at him, blinking rapidly in disbelief, then turned to Franklin. "Did you put him up to this? Were you telling him about those blasted theories of yours when I went to get another bottle of Madeira?"

"That I did not," Franklin replied.

"Theories?" Dickinson asked, sounding intrigued. "What theories?"

"Oh, they are the most _amusing_ diversions," Franklin began, warming up to the subject until Adams smacked him on the arm. "However, perhaps they are best saved for another conversation."

"Yes," said Adams firmly. "Another conversation. Preferably one that never occurs."

Dickinson took another sip of wine. "Adams, you still have yet to answer my perfectly innocent question."

"Yes, John," Franklin piped up, "what _are_ your thoughts regarding our favorite tombstone's appearance?"

Exasperated to the point where he could not even stand to look at the two of them, Adams gazed up at the ceiling. Eventually, he said, "I... suppose I would not object to Tom's countenance. The freckles would be a bother to paint, though." Then, irritated, he rested his eyes upon his dining companions for the sole purpose of scowling at them. "But what does that have to do with his beer?"

"Everything, sir!" said Dickinson. "Those who possess wealth and good looks are shielded from much of society's ills." His smile broadened into a sly grin. "Perhaps that's why you were so reluctant to give Jefferson a candid criticism."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Adams. "It's just that he was so damn enthusiastic and hopeful about that beer of his. Franklin was there. He can vouch for me."

"'Tis true," said Franklin, nodding in reminiscence. "Excitement from Tom is such a rare and fragile thing. We kept our peace in the name of friendship."

"Yes, it was either that or watch the man sulk for days," Adams added. "Tom doesn't take to criticism well. You've seen how he gets. Even the smallest discouraging word will send him into muteness and gloom."

"Unsurprising," said Dickinson, nodding. "Jefferson always did strike me as a sensitive sort." He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, then set it down. "Anyway, I shall have to experience this liquid horror for myself. Adams, you can buy me a mug of Jefferson's finest when we get to the tavern."

"Really?" said Adams incredulously, certain he had misheard what he had just heard. " _That_ is the first drink you would have me buy for you? Dickinson, I cannot in good conscience do so."

"But is this not supposed to be my night, Adams? Have you not agreed to buy me the drink of my choosing?"

And Dickinson held his gaze again, staring and smiling at him as if he were the most amusing thing in the world. 

"Very well," Adams sighed. "On your own head be it."

***

When Adams returned from the necessary, his dining companions greeted him with instant silence and over-innocent smiles. It was a familiar combination that usually meant people had talked about him in his absence. 

Adams sat back down and folded his arms. "Go on," he said impatiently. "Out with it. What were you saying about me?"

The other two exchanged conspiratorial glances.

"Whatever do you mean, John?" Franklin asked.

"Yes, whatever makes you think we were saying anything about you, Adams?" Dickinson asked. He resumed resting his chin on his palm. "Do you wish we were discussing you?"

"No," said Adams flatly, "I was just --"

"Because it's true," Dickinson interrupted, grinning lazily. "You were our primary topic of conversation."

Adams spluttered. "Then why even pretend like I _wasn't_?" 

His dining companions looked back at each other, then laughed a decidedly drunken laugh. 

"No reason," said Franklin. "Must everything have a reason?"

"I should hope not," Dickinson replied. "For some reasons are less reasonable than others." His chin slipped off his hand, an action that struck him and Franklin as tremendously amusing.

"Incredible," Adams sighed. "Well, gentlemen, we might as well head over to City Tavern at this point." 

"Wait!" said Dickinson, eyes sparkling. He held up his hand. "Wait. Dr. Franklin and I have collaborated on a most ingenious deliberation, Adams."

"Oh, no."

"A _theory_ , if you will."

"Good God, not another one." He darted a look to Franklin. "I should have known you would be a corrupting influence."

Giggles greeted this statement.

"Such a schoolmasterly tone!" Franklin commented.

"Yes, no need to take on such superior airs," Dickinson agreed. "Adams, you may have forgotten that I am your elder by a few years and thus far, far... _far_ more mature than you will ever be." 

"Age is no indicator of maturity, Dickinson, and it does not help your cause any to continue with that infernal tittering."

The giggles grew worse.

"Did you hear that, Dr. Franklin? He said 'tittering!'"

"I heard, Dickinson, I heard. How crass!"

Rolling his eyes as dramatically as he knew how, Adams arose from his seat. "All right, gentlemen, get up. We are departing for City Tavern right this instant! I am in dire need of a stronger drink and _vastly_ different company."

***

Minutes later, out on the street:

"HOW IN HELL DID YOU TWO COME UP WITH _LEE_?"

"Just think about it, John!"

"WHY. WHY WOULD I WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT."

"Consider this, Adams: between the two of you, you'd be able to produce offspring of average height! It all balances out wonderfully!"

"NO, IT DOES NOT. I AM ALMOST CERTAIN THAT SCIENCE WILL NEVER OPERATE IN THAT MANNER." 

"But how are we to know, John? There are still so many developments that have yet to be fully understood, so perhaps--"

"No. Just, NO. DON'T EVEN SPECULATE UPON IT. Good God. We cannot get to City Tavern fast enough. Make haste, you two, make haste!"

Arms thrown over each other's shoulders, they lurched through the dark, Adams bearing the brunt of their addled weight.

***

Adams shrugged off his two companions like an inconvenient cloak as soon as they got inside and put away their hats. He scanned the room for a familiar face, ignoring Dickinson and Franklin's good-natured grumbles at the sudden loss of their human crutch. 

"Look, Witherspoon sitting by himself in the corner there," he pointed out. "Wonder what he's doing alone?"

"That crazy man is _reading_ ," said Franklin, shaking his head in disbelief. "At a time like this! And a place like this, for that matter. Shall we investigate, gentlemen?"

"I do believe we shall," said Dickinson. 

They walked over to Witherspoon, apparently oblivious to the general atmosphere of inebriated merriment that surrounded him. 

"Good evening, Reverend," said Franklin. "Do you plan on joining tonight's festivities?"

"Oh, good evening, all!" said Witherspoon, looking up from his Bible with a smile. He placed his thumb over the pages to mark his place. "And whatever do you mean, Dr. Franklin? I'm having terrific fun already!"

Adams couldn't help but feel somewhat smug at this. "See, Franklin? I'm not the only one who enjoys a bit of recreational reading." 

"I see, John, but I do not quite understand."

"Neither do I," said Dickinson. He leaned on Witherspoon's table. "Why not join some of the others, Reverend? Why come if all you plan to do is read?"

"Ah, but that is not all I am doing tonight, Mr. Dickinson," Witherspoon clarified. "You see, at such gatherings, one expects that there will be some unfortunate soul who is too inebriated to find his way home safely. Poor lambs! I worry for them, I do. I won't drink much tonight, so I can properly assist them in their time of need." He indicated the partially-full glass of wine sitting next to him. "Though it does help that the Lord has blessed me with a high tolerance for spirits."

They looked at him in amazement. 

"That quite possibly the most altruistic I have ever heard," said Franklin. 

"Quite noble," said Dickinson. "But Reverend, don't you mind the self-restriction at all?"

"Mind? Why should I mind? It doesn't seem fair to make a carriage driver wait around all evening for people to finish indulging their pleasures. I look forward to an evening sojourn. They're quite refreshing!"

"And you have no fear of danger, sir?" Adams asked. "Not that I would wish any upon you, of course, but--"

"Oh, I thank you for your concern, Mr. Adams," said Witherspoon. "However -- and I say this with all humility, dear sirs -- in the few occasions where I have been forced to enter into an altercation, the other fellow has always managed to come out for the worse." 

" _Really_ ," Adams began, before Franklin cut him off with a severe shake of the head. 

"Indeed," said Witherspoon with a touch of pride. "Besides, with the Lord at my side, I shall fear no sinful ruffian and heed no nightly noises!"

The others took a moment to adjust to this unprecedented enthusiasm.

"Bully for you, Reverend," said Dickinson. "We shall leave you to your reading, then."

He threw his arms around Adams' and Franklin's shoulders and departed with them in search of the barkeep.

***

After reassuring the barkeep that Adams had not made a mistake in ordering a mug of Jefferson's beer, he toddled off to search for it in the back room, leaving the trio to wait near the counter. 

"We must convince Witherspoon to drop by our table later," said Franklin. He gestured with his beer. "Right, John?"

"What? Yes, I suppose," said Adams distractedly, looking about the room, mug in hand. His preoccupation did not go unnoticed.

"Who are you looking for?" Dickinson asked casually.

"Oh, nobody."

"You're looking for 'nobody' rather diligently," Franklin observed.

"That you are," said Dickinson, "though I doubt Dr. Hall would be flattered by such a pseudonym."

"What makes you think I'm looking for Dr. Hall? And even if I were, what business is that of yours?"

"We weren't saying it was," said Franklin.

"We weren't saying that at all," said Dickinson. He shared an unsubtle glance with Franklin and Adams knew, he just _knew_ , that the two had discussed the topic in his absence. Blast. "However, in the interest of imagination, I really must say that I never would have thought _Lyman_ would garner your interest."

"In the interest of imagination," said Adams, annoyed, "why wouldn't he?"

"It's just that he seems so... how shall I put it? Docile? Docile. He just seems too _docile_ in comparison with a man of your temper."

"Rubbish," said Adams, eyes flicking over to Dickinson. "Granted, he may be more reserved than most, but there's no docility about him. Dr. Hall is a man of strong moral and intellectual conviction."

"Ha! Strong convictions, sir? Where were his strong convictions prior to the night before the final vote?" Dickinson leaned against the counter with a feline smugness. "He's meeker than you think, Adams, but it is rather touching how fervently you wish to believe in his personal strength. You must be fond of him, indeed."

Adams narrowed his eyes. "I'm certainly fonder of him than I am of you at this moment." 

Behind him, Franklin made a happy noise. "Aha! Confirmation!"

"What? No!" Adams fumed as Franklin and Dickinson dissolved into giggles on either side of him. "It's not a confirmation of anything, damn it! I just want to _talk_ to the man, you salty fools."

Just then, there came a clink on the countertop behind him. Everyone turned to look at the barkeep, who gestured at the pewter mug he had just set down. "Jefferson's finest," he said, then wandered off. 

"Finally!" Adams pushed the mug towards Dickinson. "Here you go, sir. Better take your first sip over here than in front of Tom. We can go pour it out by the necessaries if you don't like it."

Dickinson grinned. "I don't think that will be... _necessary_ , Adams." 

"Disgusting," Adams muttered. He could hear Franklin chuckle behind him.

They watched Dickinson take a cautious first sip. He swished the beer in his mouth for a moment, then swallowed.

"Well?" Adams asked. "Ready to die of poisoning yet?"

The other man looked down into his mug, eyebrows raised. "It's quite decent, actually."

"You don't have to lie," said Adams, searching Dickinson's face for any sign of a disgusted grimace. "Tom's sitting at the other end of the room with Lee and Rutledge. You can be candid with us."

Dickinson took another sip. "No, I really do like it."

"He must be telling the truth, John," said Franklin. "There's no instinctual recoil. No sudden involuntary jerks of the head." 

"Either that, Franklin, or he should have joined that acting troupe long ago." 

Dickinson looked up from his drink. "What acting troupe?"

Adams ignored him. "Franklin, is it possible that too much alcohol can addle a man's sense of taste?

"Perhaps, but I doubt anything could dull a man's reaction to this particular brew."

"Adams! What acting troupe?"

"It's nothing, Dickinson." He gave the room another scan. No sign of Hall anywhere. "Well, it looks like you and Tom have the same mutated taste. Come on, let's go sit with your drink's creator. I'm sure he'd love to hear your glowing review."

***

The Southerners waved them over with cheers, asking them what took them so long, where had they been, and what were they drinking? After much hand-shaking and shoulder-clapping, the newcomers sat together on the opposite side of the table, with Adams flanked by Franklin on his right and Dickinson on his left.

As Dickinson lavished praise for Jefferson's beer, Adams tried not to look obvious about looking for Hall as he glanced away every so often to scan the room. The low light of the tavern threw only a few faces into stark relief; most everyone was cast in partial shadow. Adams wasn't surprised to see that the usual divisions in the Congressional chamber still prevailed: very few delegates seemed interested in intermingling with those from outside their geographic region. 

Franklin had wandered over to the New Englanders' table to chat with Hopkins. At the next table, Chase sliced his food and chatted amiably with the delegates from New Hampshire, and the sight made Adams smile for some reason. He couldn't remember why, so perhaps it wasn't of much significance. Over in the corner, Witherspoon had propped his long legs up on several empty chairs. 

He raised an eyebrow when he noticed Wilson staring wistfully at his table. Following Wilson's line of sight, Adams ended up glancing over at Dickinson, who had apparently gotten himself into Jefferson's good graces if all that grinning was any indication. A quick glance back, and Adams saw Read tap Wilson on the shoulder to get his attention. The latter turned away with a face as dreary as his grey clothing.

It was an unsettling sight for Adams. Ordinarily, he would not have cared about Wilson's well-being, but the rum had begun warming both his face and his feelings of compassion, and he decided that he could spare the sycophant some pity for once. It was a begrudging and conditional pity, but pity nevertheless. 

So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he almost didn't notice the Georgia delegation enter the tavern. They stood near the entrance in the time-honored hesitation of those who find themselves in a crowded room and must determine where and with whom to sit. One of the benefits of such hesitation, however, was the chance that someone would go ahead and wave one over, thus lessening the pressure to make the choice entirely on one's own.

Adams decided he would create this chance. 

"LYMAN!" he called out, extending his arm in an enthusiastic wave. "Lyman! Over here! Come join us!"

He stopped waving when he noticed the stares that came from everyone at his table, the tables surrounding his table, and the tables that lined the farthest side of the tavern. Even Witherspoon glanced up from his Bible, alarmed at the sudden burst of noise. 

As for Hall, he looked somewhat stunned at first, then smiled and began walking over. The other Georgia delegates shook their heads, chuckling, and went to join their Southern brethren. A few other scattered chuckles echoed around the room before they gave way to the usual tavern chatter as everyone returned to their respective conversations.

Meanwhile, back at Adams' table:

"Well! Aren't you the enthusiastic one," said Rutledge with a grin.

Adams narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he had been a tad louder than necessary, but surely just a tad. "It's noisy in here."

"Now, Mr. Adams, I am not a fan of yours by any means, but even I must admit that yours is a voice which would never be lost in a crowd."

"I'll have to second that motion," said Dickinson, clinking his mug against Rutledge's before taking another sip. 

"And I, third it," Jefferson added. He toasted the both of them, then raised his mug to Adams. "I really must commend you, John. Even my landlady must have heard that."

"Oh, now _really_ , Tom," Adams protested. Franklin had often told him how piercing his voice was, but somehow it seemed more embarrassing when the information came from others. He could feel his cheeks redden and was glad the uneven tavern lighting would obscure it.

"No, Mr. Jefferson," said Dickinson, "I think even my _servants_ over at Fairhill heard that."

"Ha!" said Rutledge. "I think even _my_ servants back in _Charleston_ heard that!"

Dickinson shook his head. "Neddy, don't be absurd."

"What?" said Rutledge, voice deepening with incredulity. "Can't I exaggerate as well?"

"It's less humorous when _you_ do so," said Dickinson with a cocky smile.

"Less humorous when _I_ \-- John Dickinson, you are a mean-spirited drunk."

"I am no such thing."

"Gentlemen!" Lee suddenly boomed. He had been sitting at the end of the table, thinking intensely. "I don't see why you all tease poor Johnny so. The man was only speaking in a normal tone of voice!"

" _Thank_ you, Richard," said Adams with a brief smile of vindication. It was nice to have some support, even if it did come from Lee. 

However, Rutledge had to spoil the moment with a derisive laugh, as Rutledge was wont to do. 

"Don't thank him so soon, Mr. Adams! That means nothing coming from Lee when he suffers from the same thunderous affliction as you do!"

At this, Jefferson nodded fondly and patted his friend on the arm. "Richard does have a tendency to roar," he affirmed.

Frowning slightly, Lee opened his mouth, then closed it, as if unable to decide whether he should be offended or not. Eventually, he settled for a hearty chuckle instead. "I reckon I do, don't I?"

Hall could not arrive at the table soon enough for Adams, who immediately hushed everyone in order to welcome the newcomer. This did nothing to dissuade his tablemates' interest in his eagerness, but Adams didn't care. Perhaps the rum had finally made itself felt, for the minute Hall sat himself down in Franklin's vacated chair, everything suddenly seemed to take a turn for the better. Everyone more tolerable, their foibles more amusing. It was probably just the rum, but it did help that Hall seemed to exude a contagious feeling of goodwill. 

As Hall settled into his seat, he grinned upon noticing Adams, then leaned over and murmured, in a voice so low that only Adams could hear it and in a tone so warmhearted that Adams almost missed the teasing quality to it: "Pleased to see you, too." 

This earned Hall a shove on the arm, but it was a good-natured one, and it was accompanied with a grin.

***

"Hmm!" said Rutledge, raising his eyebrows. He looked around the table, clearly expecting an inquiry into the complicated workings of his contemplative mind, and was quickly disappointed with the lack of any response whatsoever. Lee and Jefferson were updating each other about mutual Virginian acquaintances he didn't know and thus did not care about, Adams and Hall were talking about community obligations of religious leaders, which he also did not care about, and Dickinson was staring off into the distance, apparently lost in thought. 

Impatient for attention, he leaned forward and poked Dickinson on the arm, startling the other man out of his reverie. 

"Hmm!" Rutledge repeated.

His friend sighed and obliged. "What is it, Neddy?"

"Look at Adams' face."

"What about it?"

"Doesn't _he_ look happy for once."

They both turned to examine Adams, who did look unusually content with the world as he chatted amiably with Hall. The absence of his customary scowl seemed to disturb Rutledge, who had rarely ever seen the Massachusetts delegate appear so genial.

"Does he now?" said Dickinson in a tone of calculated that suggested he could care less about Adams' apparent happiness. "I suppose."

This was not the reaction Rutledge was looking for. He tried again: "Well, it's mighty _peculiar_ isn't it? Adams, looking like that, when he normally looks like he has just eaten a bushel of lemons for breakfast! Adams, looking like that, when he--"

"You know, Neddy," Dickinson interrupted mildly, "I'm really not in much of a mood for mocking Adams tonight." He took another sip of his beer. "At least, not when he's not doing anything worthy of ridicule."

"Oh." This was unexpected. Rutledge glanced down into his drink awkwardly, his habitual bravado temporarily diffused. The genuine expression of confusion made him look more his age, and when he spoke again, it was with the muted hostility of youth: "What changed? Have you two become friends again?"

Dickinson shrugged. "Don't know."

"Very well." Rutledge looked over at Adams and Hall, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "I wonder when they became friends. They certainly weren't before. I would have known if they were."

"Would you?" Dickinson smiled. "You always think you know everything."

A flick of the eyes back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, nothing. Finish your drink."

***

Yet even in the drunken din of the tavern, it soon became impossible not to overhear the two eldest delegates in the room:

"Ha, pappy! I don't doubt that he could use a new friend, if you know what I mean!"

"I do, indeed, Stephen, I do! Alas, some forms of tension can only be released through specific types of physical exertion, if you know what _I_ mean."

"The whole tavern knows what you mean, Benjy! No wonder you're so goddamn cheerful all the time. That young feller's wound up so tight, he'd put a spring to shame!"

"Well, he may be forty-one, but he still has his virility!"

At this last sentence, Jefferson made a strangled sort of noise that, had he any less reserve, might have emerged as a bark of laughter. He bit his lip, then shot a wide-eyed look at Adams, who suddenly realized what Franklin and Hopkins were discussing and that he would have to put an end to it _immediately_.

He raced across the tavern, ignoring the various grunts and grumbles from the people he pushed out of the way, and grabbed Franklin by the arm. "All right, that's enough socializing for now, Franklin! You haven't talked with Dr. Hall yet, have you? Let us rectify that at once!"

"I'm sure he's a pleasant man, John, but I have little to no interest in--"

"AT ONCE, FRANKLIN." 

And with that, he marched Franklin back to their table, leaving a laughing Hopkins behind.

***

Upon their return, Adams quickly learned that Dickinson had seen fit to enlighten all present with an explanation of what had caused Franklin such mirth and Adams such indignation. He at least had the prudence to omit the less polite aspects of Franklin's theories, but this was of little comfort to Adams. Furthermore, much to his chagrin, his tablemates seemed to agree that such theories were tremendously amusing. Even Hall, whom he had expected to be above such puerile nonsense, seemed to find the whole situation an utter lark. 

Naturally, the original theorist felt compelled to contribute further to the discussion, prompting Adams to utter in disgust, "Franklin, don't talk about people who are present! You're going to make everyone uncomfortable." 

"How considerate of you, John." Franklin paused, looking around the table. "Well? Are you all uncomfortable?"

"YES," Adams huffed.

"No, not really," said the others. 

"What?" said Adams, taken aback. "None of you think this is disturbing in any manner? None at all?"

His tablemates shook their heads. 

"Well, it's quite harmless, isn't it?" asked Lee. "Benjy's not trying to insinuate anything untoward! For example, he knows how much I enjoy refreshing the missus!"

Rutledge rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mr. Lee, we _all_ know. You've mentioned it countless times."

"And there you have it! Benjy's theories are pure speculation, lads. Pure speculation!" 

"Besides," Jefferson added, "it's a nice change from hearing Benjamin talk about wenches all the time." The memory of the last occasion he had been around a drunken Franklin clearly still haunted him. When the others looked to him for elaboration, he explained: "There's less... detail."

Adams furrowed his eyebrows, trying to remember...

(It was the night after everyone had signed the Declaration. Franklin had treated Jefferson and Adams to a hearty round of evening libations, and during the course of the night, they had learned more about him than they had ever wished to know, including, but not limited to, a highly graphic recollection of his finest exploits. 

They sat there, stunned into silence, as Franklin's ribaldry seemed to increase in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol he imbibed. 

At one point, Jefferson leaned over to Adams and commented, "I never would have expected this from the author of Poor Richard's Almanack."

"Poor Richard? Poor us, rather," Adams replied, sounding rather much like a soldier who had seen far too much on the battlefield.

"How can one man engage in so many dalliances in a week? A week, John!"

"I really don't want to think about that, Tom. I'm waiting for the rum to make everything better."

"And I, as well."

"It's not working as quickly as I hoped it would."

"No, it isn't."

"I've certainly been drinking a lot of it."

"As have I."

Oblivious to his friends' shock and awe, Franklin continued to recount the adventure of the milkmaid and the barn, and the peculiar dryness of long-stored hay, and how the brittleness of such hay was rather inconvenient, especially when...)

Adams shuddered. "You know what, Tom? You have a point. You have an excellent point. I withdraw my objection."

"Excellent!" said Franklin, beaming. He returned to his enrapt audience. "Now, gentlemen, let me tell you about a certain flyswatter..."

***

Shortly after they had all finished laughing at the image of Hancock using the flyswatter for purposes other than insect extermination, Witherspoon appeared at the table, having wandered over out of curiosity.

"Ah, Reverend!" said Dickinson with good cheer. The others echoed his greeting, raising their mugs in acknowledgement. "Done rereading the Bible so soon?"

"Oh, I could never reread the Good Book in an evening," said Witherspoon with a humble smile, glancing down at the Bible in his hand. 

Dickinson grinned. "It was a joke, but never you mind, 'twas a poor one, anyway."

"Rev. Witherspoon! What brings you to grace our table this fine hour?" Franklin asked. "Sit down, man, my neck hurts to look up at a man of your height."

Witherspoon sat on Hall's left, facing Franklin. "Well, Dr. Franklin, I couldn't help but overhear snatches of your table's conversation over in my corner, though I must admit I was unable to hear the words clearly. It sounded most intriguing, however!"

"Oh!" said Franklin, pleased. "You want to hear more of my theories?"

"You _don't_ want to hear more of his theories," Adams quickly interjected. "I do not recommend such a course of action, Reverend."

"They're Dr. Franklin's theories?"

"Yes they are," said Franklin with pride.

Witherspoon fell silent, eyebrows furrowing, as if trying to remember something he had heard long ago. A thought occurred to him, and he leaned forward, lowering his voice into a timid inquiry, and asked as if he were exceedingly embarrassed to have even entertained the thought: "Are they about... ladies of the night?" 

He received relieved laughter in response.

"Not at all!" said Lee. "They're about men!" 

"Don't _tell_ him," said Adams, exasperated, but it was too late. 

"Men? That sounds proper enough. Are these philosophical theories, Dr. Franklin? Do tell!"

Adams shook his head. "Franklin, don't. You're going to scar him for life."

"Hush, John! Don't underestimate a man of the cloth to his face, that's rude."

And so, Franklin told him.

And lo, Witherspoon listened.

And the others watched, waiting for the Reverend's reaction.

"I must confess," said Witherspoon, "I don't think I quite understand."

Franklin beamed at him. "Bless your sweet Jersey soul! It's just beyond your comprehension, isn't it?"

"Well, it's just that I don't see where the humor lies." Witherspoon looked around the table. "You gentlemen speak of brotherly love, do you not?"

Before anyone else could counter this notion, Adams quickly confirmed, "Yes! Brotherly love! We are in the city of brotherly love, are we not? The etymology of this city's name breaks down to that of the love between brothers, does it not?"

Just as Witherspoon seemed to accept this explanation, Rutledge slammed his mug down upon the table. All eyes turned towards him. 

"I have a theory of my own," he announced. "Perhaps this will help clarify the concept, Reverend!" He leaned forward as if he were about to impart a nefarious secret. "I've been noticing... a pattern these past few weeks. A pattern, yes, a _pattern_ involving our Mr. Adams here."

The rest of the table leaned in, except for Adams, who crossed his arms.

"And what is this pattern, Neddy?" asked Dickinson, amused at his friend's sudden ebullience.

Rutledge waited until he was sure he had everyone's attention, then went on: "How strange is it that Adams seems to be always rescued by a gallant Southern gentleman! First, Mr. Lee resuscitates the independency issue from beyond the grave."

"That _was_ damn heroic of me, wasn't it?" said Lee gleefully. 

"Yes, yes, whatever. Then! Mr. Jefferson shocks us all with his solemn proclamation about things such as common assent and so forth."

Jefferson grinned. "Someone had to say something."

"Yes, I'm sure. And finally, we have our Lyman, who, from what I have gathered, appeared in the middle of the night like some angel of deliverance, rescuing Adams from the depths of despair with his principles alone!"

"All I did was change my vote," said Hall bashfully, but Rutledge had not yet finished.

"Like knights rescuing a damsel in distress," he extolled, "these fine gentlemen kept Adams' dream aloft where surely it would have drowned. Gentlemen? Nay, they are more than mere gentlemen! They are knights, sirs!"

He slapped the table for emphasis.

"However," Rutledge concluded glibly, "Adams is quite the unhandsome damsel in distress, methinks." 

And taking a satisfied sip from his mug, Rutledge leaned back in his chair to bask in his audience's reactions.

Adams stared at the man in astonishment. "How did you -- I don't even," he began, then trailed off and fell into silence, looking imploringly at his tablemates for any sort of sane response to this insane conjecture.

Across the table, Jefferson gazed at an invisible spot on the ceiling, mouth firmly set in a neutral line, though the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. On his left, Lee grinned and gave Jefferson a comradely punch on the arm, as if to congratulate themselves on their theoretical knighthood. Next to him, Franklin looked supremely put out at not having thought of Rutledge's theory first, absurd as it was. 

On the opposite end of the table from Franklin, Witherspoon waved his handkerchief around in an agitated manner, stammering in quiet incoherence. At his right, Hall bit his lip, not quite suppressing a grin. He avoided eye contact with Adams as he patted him on the back, as if to console him for being thought of as anything remotely like a damsel. 

And Dickinson raised an eyebrow. "What am _I_ in this medieval theory of yours, Neddy?"

"Oh! Well, John, let's see." Rutledge frowned in concentration. "Some sort of obstacle to these knights," he muttered to himself.

"A rival knight, perhaps?" Dickinson suggested casually.

"No, no," said Rutledge, still lost in thought. "We need something more antagonistic." He scrunched his eyes together. "Antagonistic..."

"Neddy!" Lee exclaimed. "I've got it! How about a wizard?"

"Wizard is acceptable," Dickinson said quickly.

"No, no," said Rutledge in disgust. "Merlin _aided_ Arthur, and you haven't aided anyone I've deemed a knight!"

"...You're as stubborn as a child sometimes, you know that?"

Ignoring him, Rutledge went on: "Wizards are supposed to be the guides, the sages, the ministers of magic and such. Elderly fellows brimming with age and wisdom and the like. John, you're almost two decades older than me, but not quite old enough. Aha! Dr. Franklin can be the wizard!"

At this, Franklin's expression changed for the brighter. "Why, thank you, Neddy!"

"But what about _me_?" Dickinson persisted.

Rutledge looked at him, eyes gleaming with the shine of inspiration.

"A dragon," he proclaimed proudly. "An evil, emerald-colored, fire-snorting dragon!"

Laughter rang around the table as Dickinson sputtered his indignation. He seemed conflicted about which aspect of the characterization offended him more and articulated disjointed syllables until he finally settled for:

" _Emerald_ -colored?"

Rutledge chuckled the chuckle of a man amused with his own cleverness. "You do so often wear green, John."

Dickinson scowled. "Why so much focus on my clothing? Why not my hair? I have wonderful hair. Mary so often tells me it's a lovely shade of brown."

"And it _is_ a lovely shade of brown," Rutledge agreed, "but that has no bearing on--"

"Like a lion's mane," Dickinson continued. "August. Regal. Why can't I be a lion? I'm fond of cats."

"That makes no sense. Lions aren't green."

"Neither am I."

"But you _wear_ green..."

As Dickinson continued protesting his characterization as one of the less-flattering beasts of legend, Adams' mind started to wander away from the conversation. He briefly imagined three knights on horses:

Lee rode his brown steed and wore a broad grin, looking as charming and slightly daft as ever. Next to him, Jefferson sat majestically upon a sable stallion with a small smile on his lips and a quill in his halberd instead of a sword. On Jefferson's other side was Dr. Hall, balanced precariously on a magnificent white horse.

Then another image crept into his mind: one of Dickinson with his arms crossed, standing some distance apart from the knights.

"What, I don't merit a horse in this absurd fantasy of yours?" Dickinson sniped. Adams frowned. He couldn't really imagine Dickinson in shining armor. But Rutledge did have a point about the green clothing, for that was easily envisioned. "Honestly, Adams, you could at least dignify me with a response. Adams?"

He blinked. The real Dickinson had been speaking. Adams stopped staring off into the distance and turned to look at the man addressing him.

"Er, pardon?"

"I had asked you," said Dickinson with the slightly irritated tone of someone who thought he was repeating himself patiently, "if you would like me to take your mug up along with mine, as I am about to get my drink replenished."

"Oh," said Adams. He stared blankly at the empty mug in his hands for a moment. "Wait, aren't I supposed to pay for your drink?"

"You already have. It's Franklin's turn this time. Can't you see that he's already walked over to the barkeep?"

"Ah. So he has. Right, right. All right, then. Certainly. Yes. Thank you?"

Dickinson rolled his eyes. "Where one word might have sufficed, you've chosen a dozen. Typical." He lifted the mug out of Adams' grasp as he rose from the table, then, almost as an afterthought, added: "You're welcome, madman." 

As Adams watched the other man depart, he realized the old insult no longer stung. He could have sworn he had heard some affection in Dickinson's voice, if only for a moment.

***

When Dickinson had sat back down, Adams leaned over to peer into his mug. "What did you get this time?"

"Nothing new. I told you I was getting my drink replenished, Adams." He grinned. "You are familiar with the word 'replenished,' right? It means--"

"I know what the word means, Dickinson. I just never expected you to get _more_ of Tom's beer."

"You did?" asked Jefferson, looking over in surprise. "That makes you the first, Mr. Dickinson! Most people tell me they are so astounded by the first sip that they cannot bear drinking more than one mug."

"Is that so," said Dickinson. "Well, who can blame them? It's quite the recipe." He leaned forward and looked down the table. "Reverend! How are you doing? I hope that Neddy's silly imagination hasn't troubled you much?"

Witherspoon shook his head. "No, I'm fine. Thank you for asking. The imagery, however, was quite overwhelming. I am sure young Mr. Rutledge did not intend to use such colorful metaphors."

"No, I fully intended to do so," Rutledge piped up. "Though I do apologize if I have, in any way, actually made you think of Adams as an actual damsel instead of a figurative one. For that is an image no man should have to envision!"

Witherspoon made a choking sound, and as he coughed, Hall thumped him on the back.

"Good God," Adams muttered as laughter and murmurs of assent surrounded him. He looked over at Hall beseechingly. "This isn't happening, is it? I'm not really here listening to that peacock talk about me in that manner, am I?"

"I'm afraid you are," Hall replied. He had not laughed with the others, and he did try to look sympathetic, though his eyes sparkled with merriment. "But if it helps, I think you would make a lovely damsel."

Adams stared at him for a moment, temporarily disconcerted, then thought better of it and smiled. "Liar. But thank you, nonetheless."

He turned when Dickinson tapped him on the shoulder. 

"Adams. Adams."

"Yes? What is it?"

"Do you think of me as a dragon?" Dickinson leaned forward, right elbow propped upon the table, and rested his chin upon his palm. The casualness of the pose, the oddness of the question, and the inscrutable expression on Dickinson's face -- both intent yet joking at the same time -- amused Adams tremendously.

He took time to compose a suitable answer.

"Well, you're already somewhat of a fire-snorting hothead, so, yes, why not?" Adams grinned. "You know, your breath absolutely _reeks_ of Tom's beer. We could set it alight and watch you terrify the townspeople, that's how much it reeks. You'd be quite the dragon, then."

"I should've known better than to ask a madman," said Dickinson with a rueful grin. 

"See?" said Rutledge, immensely proud of himself for having pointed out the comparison in the first place. "A right dragon, you are. Even Adams admits my brilliance in conjuring up the idea!" 

Dickinson laughed. "You just keep telling yourself that, Neddy, and maybe someday it will come true." 

Then, abruptly, Dickinson's smile vanished. 

"John?" Rutledge frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Behind you," Dickinson muttered, taking a deep swig from his drink.

Approaching them was Wilson. As the others at the table turned their heads to see what had caused Dickinson such displeasure, they fell silent upon recognition of the grey-clad man. 

Wilson walked over to Dickinson's side of the table, then stood next to it, hesitant, as if he had already expended whatever small amount of courage he possessed in the time it took him to cross the tavern. He took a deep breath and let it go, then said, in a voice as steely as a man unaccustomed to steel could make it:

"Good evening, John."

"James," Dickinson replied neutrally, acknowledging him with a slow nod of the head.

"I trust you have had a pleasant evening so far?"

"Up until this moment, yes."

Wilson took this in stride. He stared at a point directly above Dickinson's head, concentrating hard, as if trying to recall a speech he had written for the occasion.

"What is it, James?"

Then, haltingly: "Lately, John, I have spent many nights awake, pondering. I have found myself lost in a conundrum of sorts." 

"Have you," said Dickinson. He folded his arms.

"Yes," said Wilson, finally lowering his eyes to make eye contact. "Quite lost. I have often wondered, of late, what I could have done differently on... that day."

Dickinson tilted his head and scrutinized the man in front of him. "And?"

It was rather amazing, Adams thought, how one syllable could contain so many levels of meaning. He detected impatience, hostility, and most of all, bitterness. And judging by the look on Wilson's face, the other man had also noticed Dickinson's challenging tone and apparently decided it was a challenge he was not quite prepared to meet. Wilson's resolve seemed to dissipate like the smoke wafting throughout the tavern. Once again, Adams couldn't help but feel sorry for the man.

Dickinson, however, apparently felt no such pity. "Tell me, James," he said with a humorless smile, "what _could_ you have done differently?"

Wilson began backing away, shaking his head. "Forget it," he said.

"Change your vote?" Dickinson suggested, still smiling. "Soften the blow with finer words?"

"I'll return when I've thought this through."

"Why not now? Tell me, James!"

But Wilson had already turned around and left.

"Good Lord," Rutledge exclaimed once Wilson had departed. "I'm glad he's gone. Never did feel comfortable around him, anyway."

"Ned, don't be rude," Adams admonished. "Judge Wilson can't help it if he makes everyone feel uncomfortable." He then turned to Dickinson, who was staring at his drink as if he wanted to murder it. "And you, Dickinson--"

"Me? What did I do?"

"Wilson was only trying to reconcile with you, and you had to be difficult."

Dickinson scoffed. "Rubbish. The man could barely utter a coherent sentence without dissolving into weak-willed blithering. He was obviously drunk."

" _You're_ obviously drunk," Adams retorted. "You know, perhaps Ned is right--"

"I am?" said Rutledge, pleased.

"--you, John Dickinson, are a mean-spirited drunk."

"That's not the point, Adams! The point is that he betrayed me in front of all our colleagues and now he wants to _apologize_ for it? I don't see any reason for me to heed such an apology."

"Oh, don't be so stubborn, you fribble. I'll be the first to admit that I don't have the vaguest notion of exactly what sort of relationship you two have with one another, Franklin's theories notwithstanding, but if you're happier together than you are apart, well, then perhaps you should give friendship another try! After all, if you and I can be friends again--" and at this, Dickinson's expression changed, and Adams read it for incredulity so he pressed on, hastily adding, "--not that I'm saying we _have_ become friends again, but if that possibility exists between us, then why shouldn't it exist between you and Wilson?"

It was one of his shorter speeches, and not one of his most articulate speeches by any means, but Adams felt proud of it nevertheless. Even though Dickinson stared at him as if he were an aberration of nature. 

"What are you saying, Adams? You would be willing to become friends once more?"

"I was actually trying to make a point about Wilson..."

"Yes, I know, but answer me regardless."

Adams was starting to feel exasperated again. "I don't know what you want from me, Dickinson. Do you _want_ to be friends again?" 

"Well, I don't know, Adams," Dickinson replied with a teasing smile. "Can you be friends with a dragon?"

"Oh, for God's sake! I don't care _what_ you are, Dickinson, just as long as you're a decent human being. You've proven that before, why not prove it again?"

The smile became a grin. "You think I'm a decent human being?"

"Decent enough. And mostly in the past tense. Don't look so smug, I didn't say you were wonderful or virtuous or anything of the sort. I merely said you were decent." Adams sighed. He had never expected to have this conversion, especially not with everyone watching him, sipping their drinks quietly as if in the presence of an exceptionally engrossing play. He leaned the side of his head against the back of his chair, barely registering the presence of Dickinson's arm resting alongside the top of the wood. "Anyway, you've pushed for reconciliation between two nations, so why not consider reconciliation between two old friends? I assume you two _were_ friends at some point."

And Dickinson just kept grinning at him. "I'll think about it."

* * *

_IV. Rather Late in the Evening._

"Goodness," Witherspoon observed, looking down the table. "Mr. Dickinson is certainly affectionate this evening!"

Franklin snickered. "That's one way to put it, Reverend."

Throughout the past hour, Dickinson had repeatedly demonstrated his previously non-existent affection for Adams with an alarming frequency. Initially, this was not a problem. Adams didn't mind the occasional arm around his shoulder, nor did he mind a friendly thump between the shoulder blades. And when Dickinson nuzzled his cheek once, he did find it strange, but no more objectionable than the time a neighbor's cat did so, and at least Dickinson didn't try to bite him like the cat did. However, Adams did mind a hand in his coat pocket, especially when said hand snaked around his back in order to reach said pocket. The resulting tiff had drawn the attention of everyone at the table and thus prompted Witherspoon's comment.

Having firmly placed Dickinson's hand on the table where he could see it, Adams sighed and asked Rutledge, "Is he usually like this when he drinks?"

"Well," said Rutledge, staring off into the distance, apparently deep in thought...

(Over the course of several nocturnal incidents at various taverns across Philadelphia, Rutledge had learned not to sit next to Dickinson when the latter had had more than a couple of beers.

**January:**

"You're certainly friendly this evening," Rutledge remarked as Dickinson threw an arm around his shoulders and nuzzled his face. "How much have you had to drink?"

"I don't know," his friend slurred, sleepily pawing at Rutledge's cravat with his other hand like an idle cat.

**February:**

"John, you're drooling on my shoulder. John?" Rutledge gently shoved his friend's head away from his coat. "Oh, look at you. Here, I'll get your handkerchief out."

"Goodness, Neddy," Dickinson slurred. "I will have you remember that I am a married man!"

"And so am I," said Rutledge with a raised eyebrow, dabbing his friend's chin perfunctorily.

**March:**

"To St. Patrick!" Rutledge declared.

"To St. Patrick!" Dickinson answered.

They sipped heartily from their mugs, then slammed them down on the table with great gusto.

"Interesting people, the Irish," said Rutledge. "You know, when I was studying over at Oxford -- John, what in the devil's name...? People do not pin shamrocks there!" He laughed with a bit of suspicion. "You silly, silly man."

**April:**

"JOHN," Rutledge hissed, slapping Dickinson's hands away. "You will do kindly to keep your hands to yourself, sir. These breeches were hand-tailored by the finest craftsman in all of Philadelphia and I will thank you to not unduly stretch the material."

**May:**

"Neddy," said Dickinson with a slight frown, "why are you sitting on the opposite side of the table?"

"Am I?" said Rutledge innocently. "I hadn't noticed."

Dickinson looked puzzled, then took another sip from his mug. He stared at Rutledge over the rim of the mug as he drank. When he finished, he leaned forward, and said, very seriously, "Neddy."

"Yes, John?"

"Did you know that your nose looks different across the table than it does when you are not across the table?"

Rutledge blinked. "Well, yes, John, I do."

"Excellent," said Dickinson, smiling.)

...Rutledge shrugged. "Perhaps. I hadn't really noticed."

Adams narrowed his eyes. "Of course you haven't."

***

Wilson's second visit was not a vast improvement upon the first, but it was better. Tipsier than earlier, he had to lean on the table for support, but his voice was steady when he spoke to Dickinson, and his resolve was relatively firm.

"Reason has not yet led me to a solution, John, but the past has already occurred and there's nothing I can do to change it."

"True, James, true."

"I reckon, John, that attempting to speculate upon what I could have done differently will only render us both confused."

"I don't doubt it, James. So what do you propose instead?"

Wilson frowned. He looked down at the table where his hand rested, looked at the wood underneath his palm. Unfortunately, it gave him no inspiration. He sighed. "I shall return after further deliberation."

"And I shall be here, ready to listen." Dickinson didn't quite smile, but the corners of his lips quirked upwards slightly. 

The other men at the table relaxed with a faint, nearly inaudible sound of multiple released breaths. Lee gripped Jefferson's arm at the drama of it all, and Jefferson patted his hand. He knew his friend was a sensitive soul who was greatly affected by these sorts of occasions. 

As for Wilson, he returned the almost smile, and when he walked away, it was with a straighter back, and his head was held tall. 

"He still makes me uncomfortable," said Rutledge, "but at least his posture's improved."

***

The evening was winding down. Most of the other delegates who had left made sure to stop by Dickinson's side of the table to bid their farewells. Some of these farewells were quite unintelligible -- especially McKean's, which was mostly just a rumbling brogue-laden roar -- but they still communicated well wishes adequately enough. 

Adams was in a good mood. His second mug of rum had done the trick. Everything and everyone was more humorous and pleasant, and he even laughed sincerely whenever Rutledge felt compelled to share yet another dose of cleverness. So merrily he grin at everyone, and so unusual was this demonstration of good cheer that Rutledge declared multiple times that a happy Adams was starting to make him feel even more uncomfortable than a gloomy Wilson ever did.

"Well, I, for one, am pleased," Franklin pronounced. "John, I do worry about you sometimes. If there was anyone who could suffer an aneurysm from stress, it would be you."

Adams, who had been resting his head on Hall's shoulder to temporarily stop the room from spinning, raised his mug in Franklin's direction. "Thank you, sir! I am glad to have escaped such a fate! If only all of you could feel the joy I feel in my heart of hearts at this moment."

Rutledge shook his head. "We are in a strange new world, gentlemen, full of horrors unknown to mortal man."

"Oh, hush, Neddy," said Dickinson, who was resting his head on Adams' shoulder, for he had also decided to adopt Adams' remedy for spinning rooms. "You're just annoyed because he defeated you in arm-wrestling."

"I am not, and he did not. You know how tired my right arm gets in the evening."

"There's really no medical basis for that," Hall piped up good-naturedly.

Rutledge scowled. "Hush, Lyman. If you're going to imitate a pillar, you might as well be silent as one."

Across the table, Adams tilted his head backwards to look up at Hall. "If it helps, Lyman, you make a wonderful pillar."

"Excellent," said Hall. "I've been wondering what to pursue after I retire from my practice." 

Rolling his eyes, Rutledge muttered, "Good Lord, you two! Any more of this saccharine camaraderie and I'll have to get myself a pair of false teeth made, like the General's."

"They're not all false," Jefferson said. "I know his dentist. He uses real teeth for that. Some from humans. Some from horses."

" _Horses_?" asked Rutledge in a scandalized tone.

"Horses."

"Good Lord."

"Not with the entire length of the tooth, mind you, just pieces of the teeth--"

"Thank you, Mr. Jefferson, for that highly disgusting piece of information!"

"You're welcome." A slow grin spread across Jefferson's face. "You know what else goes into the General's false teeth?"

"I do not, nor do I wish to--"

"Bits of donkey teeth."

" _Mister_ Jefferson, you will cease informing me about the General's teeth immediately!"

The Virginian shrugged slightly, careful not to awaken Lee, who was napping on his shoulder. "I just thought it was interesting."

Franklin nodded sagaciously. "It is interesting, Tom, and it's not your fault that some minds fail to appreciate scientific progress. Who knows how the field of dentistry will develop?"

" _However_ it develops," said Rutledge, making a point of leaning forward so Franklin could see his displeasure from the other end of the table, "I should hope it does so with less contributions from beasts." 

***

On his third visit, Wilson found success. 

"John, do you know what I truly fear?"

"What is it that you truly fear, James?"

"I fear for your well-being, John. I cannot help but feel guilty as a possible catalyst for sending you off to war. You needn't go to the militia. You needn't risk your life out there on the battlefield, just because--"

"James, James! You give yourself far too much credit."

"But, John, mine was the final vote--"

"True." Dickinson held up a hand. "True. But that is not the only reason I am departing. Do you really think that I would leave my family, my friends, my entire _life_ behind..." He paused, as if considering the full import of what he had just said, then continued: "...just because of a sudden realization that war was all that lay ahead? No, James. No. I could have easily stayed in Philadelphia and aided America's cause from behind a desk rather than from behind a rifle, or a sword, or a battalion. Either way, my life would be at risk. Either way, I would have to worry for my family and all those I hold dear. My announcement in the Congressional chamber was not borne out of pure spontaneity, James, and neither was the decision that motivated it." 

"Oh, John," said Wilson, stricken. 

Across the table, Lee and Jefferson gripped each other's hands, eyes fixated on the emotional meeting of the minds unfolding before them. Next to them, Rutledge rolled his eyes with the impunity of youth, but he did seem affected nevertheless, and he blinked more rapidly than usual, as if to dispel any moisture that had developed when he was not looking.

"So you see, James, you needn't blame yourself." Dickinson smiled. "I've already taken that role, multiple times, primarily in the form of very angry letters I have never sent you."

"...Oh."

"Don't worry, James! They have been fed to my chimney long ago." He thought about it for a moment. "I may need to burn a few more before I leave. I haven't gone through my desk yet."

Wilson nodded, digesting the information.

"Anyway," said Dickinson, "I forgive you, James."

"Oh, wonderful, John!"

And then Dickinson did something quite unexpected. He rose from the table, lurched forward, and gave Wilson a most manly and warm embrace with many a hearty thump on the back. 

The audience at the table applauded, Witherspoon lent Lee his handkerchief, and off in the distance, Hopkins called out, "I knew you were right about them all along, Benjy!" 

"James?"

"Yes, John?" Wilson asked blissfully.

"That's long enough. You can let go of me now."

"Oh. Right."

And so, they parted.

Then, as Wilson turned to leave for the third time, Dickinson held up a halting hand. 

"James, if you'd like, there is a seat for you here."

"Good heavens," said Wilson, looking fit to burst. "John, I am so inordinately happy right now, I could... I could..."

But before he could finish, he clapped a hand to his mouth and ran out of the tavern faster than Adams could have ever imagined the man could run.

Dickinson sighed, then sat back down. "I should've known that would happen."

"What?" Adams asked. "What would happen? What was he so happy he could do? Where did he go?"

"Oh, it's just one of his stranger habits. Whenever he hits euphoria, he suddenly feels the need to vomit, so he'll run off to the necessaries if he can make it in time. Otherwise, he'll just vomit in the street."

Rutledge threw down his handkerchief in disgust. "John! Surely there must have been a more civilized way to phrase that."

"No, Neddy, I don't think so. 'Vomit' is the correct word."

"John!"

"I'm sorry to have offended your delicate sensibilities, Neddy, but you will have to encounter that word, and, more often than not, the thing that word signifies, for the rest of your life. I am only trying to assist you in acclimating yourself to its brutality. And at least I wasn't talking about the varieties of animal teeth in General's mouth."

Meanwhile, a noise from the other end of the table preempted Rutledge's response. Instead, he said, "Good Lord, will you look at the Reverend!"

For Witherspoon had leapt to his feet, a thrilled fire in his eyes. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I shall go ensure Judge Wilson's safety!" 

And with that, he dashed out the door.

***

After that little episode, Wilson decided it would be best for him to go home and sleep off the excitement of the night's festivities. Witherspoon happily volunteered to assist him on the way home, and they both bade farewell to Dickinson and the others before the left through the tavern doors.

Which was really quite a shame, because in leaving so soon, they missed the following:

"I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT," said Adams, looking around the table.

"Oh dear," said Franklin.

"What?" asked Hall. "What's wrong?"

"He's going to express his love for everyone at the table," Franklin replied.

"His love?" 

Jefferson leaned forward. "That's how we know he's well and truly drunk, when he starts bellowing his affection for everyone. It's usually quite the show."

Franklin nodded his head to the right. "Dr. Hall, I'd recommend moving your chair away from him. For your own safety, of course."

"Oh! Certainly," said Hall, somewhat confused at the warning, but heeding it nonetheless. He soon saw why.

"GENTLEMEN. I KNOW I HAVE NOT BEEN THE EASIEST MAN TO DEAL WITH THESE PAST FEW MONTHS OR YEAR OR WHATEVER SPAN OF TIME IT WAS SINCE WE ALL FIRST GATHERED TO SIT IN THE CONTINENTAL CONGRESS. AND FOR THAT, I APOLOGIZE, AND I WOULD LIKE TO ADD THAT I LOVE YOU ALL. I LOVE EVERY ONE OF YOU FOR WHO YOU ARE, IN SPITE OF WHO YOU ARE."

At the opposite end of the tavern, Chase raised his fork in a salute of recognition. 

"THANK YOU, SIR SAMUEL. I APPRECIATED THAT." He looked at everyone at his table, grinning. "I APPRECIATE THE LOT OF YOU, GENTLEMEN. SOME, MORE THAN OTHERS. SOME, DEFINITELY MORE THAN OTHERS. BUT IT IS A TRUE LOVE THAT I FEEL IN MY HEART TONIGHT, GENTLEMEN, NOT AN IDEALIZED LOVE, FOR AN IDEALIZED LOVE MEANS YOU ONLY LIKE THE OTHER PERSON FOR WHAT THEY REPRESENT TO YOU. NONE OF YOU ARE ELEVATED TO THAT LEVEL IN MY EYES. NO ONE IS. EXCEPT, PERHAPS, ABBY, BUT SHE IS NOT HERE, AND THAT IS NEITHER HERE NOR THERE. INSTEAD, I HAVE YOU ALL. ALL OF YOU ARE HERE."

"That we are," said Rutledge, grinning cockily, for a yelling Adams was a familiar Adams, and familiarity comforted him.

"AH, NED. NED, NED, NED. MY DEAR BOY, I STILL RESENT YOU FOR EXCISING THAT SLAVERY CLAUSE, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? WE'LL STILL HAVE PROBLEMS ANYWAY. I WAS THINKING ABOUT EMANCIPATION DURING SUPPER. AS I ATE, I CAME TO A REALIZATION. IT WILL BE A COMPLICATED BUSINESS, NED. IT WILL TAKE YEARS AND IT WILL TAKE THOUGHT. YEARS OF THOUGHT. SO I FORGIVE YOU, NED, EVEN IF I DO THINK YOU ARE A BIT OF A BIGOT."

Rutledge stopped grinning. "I was just trying to preserve the South's socioeconomic structure. Does that really make me a bigot?" 

"NO MATTER. FOR AT THIS MOMENT, YOUNG NED, I LOVE YOU LIKE A BROTHER. A LITTLE BROTHER WITH QUESTIONABLE TASTE IN WAISTCOATS."

Rutledge opened his mouth, then closed it, as Adams barreled on, going down the table.

"TOM, DEAR TOM, YOU ARE TOO SENSITIVE SOMETIMES BUT IT TAKES ALL TYPES TO MAKE A WORLD, YOU KNOW? I DON'T CARE SO MUCH FOR MUSIC BUT AT LEAST YOUR WIFE APPRECIATES IT."

"I know she does," said Jefferson with the slightest trace of a smirk.

"AND I KNOW YOU KNOW SHE DOES. FRANKLIN AND I BOTH KNOW. OH, HOW WE KNOW. INCIDENTALLY, AS YOUR FRIEND, I MUST CONFESS SOMETHING TO YOU. I MUST CONFESS THAT YOUR BEER STINKS. IT REALLY DOES. I'M SORRY. I HAVE TO BE HONEST. IT'S HORRIBLE, BUT NOT UNSAVALGEABLE. TRIAL AND ERROR, MY FRIEND. TRIAL AND ERROR WILL SAVE YOU."

Everyone cringed, looking at Jefferson for any signs of an impending sulk. To their surprise, he seemed only vaguely disappointed, but not entirely dispirited. "I knew the percentage of hops was too high," he sighed. 

"That's not quite the only problem," Franklin began, but Lee shook his head grimly at him and Franklin stopped.

Adams turned to Lee.

"RICHARD, I LOVE YOU LIKE THE INSANE BROTHER I'VE NEVER HAD. YOU ARE A RIGHT DOLT SOMETIMES BUT I TRULY DO LOVE YOUR SINCERITY. NEVER HAVE I THOUGHT OF YOU AS INSINCERE. NEVER, MY GOOD MAN. NEVER. DAFT, OCCASIONALLY. DOWNRIGHT IDIOTIC AT TIMES. BUT INSINCERE? NEVAAAAAAR! AND I LOVE YOU FOR IT. VIRGINIA SHOULD BE PROUD TO HAVE YOU AS THEIR GOVERNOR. FOR IN YOUR SIMPLICITY, YOU SEE THINGS THAT OTHERS DO NOT, WITH THEIR DEVIOUS EYES AND THEIR EVEN MORE DEVIOUS TONGUES. POLITICS IS LIKE DEALING WITH A BARREL OF SNAKES AND YOU, SIR, ARE... WELL, I SUPPOSE YOU ARE THE BARREL IN THIS METAPHOR."

Lee puffed his chest out with pride. "I've been told I'm barrel-chested, Johnny! Does that help?"

"IT CERTAINLY DOES, RICHARD. IT CERTAINLY DOES. STAY STRONG, MY FAVORITE BARREL."

"Don't worry Johnny, I will!"

Franklin smiled the mild and indulgent smile he reserved especially for Adams. He knew what was coming, and he welcomed it.

"FRANKLIN, AT TIMES YOU HAVE BEEN MY ONLY FRIEND IN THIS ACCURSED CITY. THANK YOU, DEAR SOUL. I LOVE YOU IN A PERFECTLY PLATONIC MANNER. I'M SORRY IF I'VE EVER TAKEN YOUR FRIENDSHIP FOR GRANTED. AND THAT PORTRAIT OF YOU? IT ACTUALLY WASN'T THAT BAD. IT CAPTURED YOUR SHINING PATE JUST BEAUTIFULLY. WHAT A STARTLING AMOUNT OF VERISIMILITUDE! THE PAINTER CAPTURED YOUR SHINE WITH A REMARKABLE ACCURACY. I'VE OFTEN THOUGHT, WHENEVER I MISS YOU, I SHALL SEARCH FOR A BODY OF WATER, AND THEN I SHALL LOOK FOR SUNLIGHT UPON THE WATER. AND AS I LOOK AT THAT SUNLIGHT, I SHALL RECALL, 'AH, YES, THIS IS WHAT FRANKLIN'S BALD PATE SHINES LIKE. THIS IS THE EXACT GLIMMERING, SHIMMERING ESSENCE.' HOW DOES SUCH A BRAIN SIT IN SUCH A HUMBLE-LOOKING RECEPTACLE? ONE CAN ONLY WONDER."

"I love you too, John."

"AND NOW WE COME TO LYMAN. MY DEAR, DEAR DOCTOR. WE MUST REALLY GET A MEAL SOMETIME. YOU ARE ONE OF THE KINDEST, GENTLEST SOULS I HAVE EVER HAD THE PLEASURE TO MEET. HERE I MUST DISAGREE WITH DICKINSON, FOR YOU, LYMAN, ARE NOT DOCILE. AT LEAST NOT TO THE EXTENT THAT THE WORD CONNOTES WEAKNESS AND PASSIVITY, SIR."

Hall raised his eyebrows at Dickinson. "You said I was docile?"

"In as flattering a manner as I could," Dickinson replied.

"THAT MATTERS NOT, LYMAN, FOR YOU, SIR, YOU ARE NEITHER SUCH THING. YOU... ARE LYMAN HALL. AND THAT IS THE HIGHEST COMPLIMENT I CAN GIVE YOU. THANK GOD YOU ARE THE WAY YOU ARE, IT WOULD HAVE DESTROYED MY SPIRIT IF THE NEW GEORGIA DELEGATE HAD BEEN BUT A MERE COPY OF ANY OF THE OTHER DELEGATES IN CONGRESS. (NO OFFENSE, ANY OF YOU OTHER DELEGATES WHO MAY BE LISTENING IN ON THIS CONVERSATION.) WELL, NO MATTER. LYMAN, MAY I EMBRACE YOU?"

"You may," said Hall, and they did. 

"A FINE, BROTHERLY EMBRACE," said Adams. "I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU EVER HAD CHARGES AGAINST YOUR MORAL CHARACTER. PERHAPS, THE FOLLY OF YOUTH."

"Wait, when did you hear about that? I never told you about why I stopped preaching--"

"FINALLY, WE HAVE DICKINSON."

"Excellent," said Dickinson, looking wary.

"DICKINSON. JOHN. IT FEELS STRANGE SAYING YOUR PROPER NAME WHEN IT IS THE SAME AS MINE."

"That's exactly how I feel about saying your proper name as well."

"I SHALL CONTINUE TO ADDRESS YOU BY YOUR SURNAME."

"And I shall do the same, Adams."

"DICKINSON, I AM GLAD YOU RECONCILED WITH WILSON. AND I AM GLAD THAT THIS GATHERING OCCURRED, AND THAT, DESPITE EVERYTHING, WE HAVE BEEN ABLE TO DINE AND DRINK TOGETHER THIS EVENING WITHOUT TEARING EACH OTHERS' THROATS OUT. AND THAT, AT TIMES, WE HAVE EVEN ENJOYED EACH OTHERS' COMPANY."

"Sentiments I share, sir. Tonight has been a good night." 

"AN AWFULLY GOOD NIGHT, DICKINSON. WHEN ELSE WOULD I HAVE SEEN ANYONE DRINK TOM'S BEER OF THEIR OWN VOLITION, MULTIPLE TIMES, AND HAPPILY SO. TRULY UNPRECEDENTED, MY DEAREST FRIBBLE. YOU KNOW, I FELT ABSOLUTELY NO JOY WHEN I SAW YOU LEAVE CONGRESS THAT DAY. NO JOY. EVEN THOUGH YOU HAD BEEN MY GREATEST ENEMY FOR MONTHS. I AM GLAD THAT WAS NOT THE LAST TIME I SAW YOU. IT VERY WELL COULD HAVE BEEN, AND I AM GLAD THAT IS NOT THE CASE. YOU'RE A STUBBORN MAN, DICKINSON, AND SMUGGER THAN A WAGON OF CATS, BUT I'M BEGINNING TO LIKE YOU ANYWAY. I'M TIRED OF LOATHING YOU. I'M SO TIRED OF IT. I HOPE YOU FARE WELL IN THIS WAR, JOHN DICKINSON, AND I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU WOULD HAVE MADE A WONDERFUL DRAGON IF THAT WERE IN ANY WAY PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE." 

The affection didn't escape Dickinson, who looked at him with a somewhat pained smile. "I rather like this side of you, Adams. I'm sorry I won't have much of an opportunity to see it again."

"NEVER YOU MIND THAT, DICKINSON. WE'LL SEE EACH OTHER AGAIN, I'M SURE OF IT."

His task complete, Adams raised his mug and looked around the table. 

"I FEEL GOD IN THIS TAVERN TONIGHT, GENTLEMEN!" 

He toasted the lot of them, clinking his mug with each of theirs, then, suddenly exhausted, he yawned and almost fell off his chair. Dickinson and Hall leapt forward to pull him back into it.

"Good Lord, sir!" said Dickinson with a laugh. "I believe it's time to get you home."

"Mmm, Braintree?" said Adams, voice subdued with sleepiness. "I do miss home."

"No, madman, your apartment. By the way, may I stay over? I'd rather not return to my big empty house tonight."

Rutledge corrected him: "You have servants there, John."

"That's not the same, Neddy. They're not _people_."

Then Adams told them they could _all_ stay over if they so wished, but would someone help him get to his feet, for he had temporarily forgotten how to walk.

***

The subsequent events were blurred in Adams' mind. He vaguely recalled stumbling through the tavern doors and emerging into the chill night air, supported on either side by Dickinson and Hall. Even vaguer was how they all managed to fit in his room, but he did remember telling them where to find the winter blankets to spread over the rug, and watching everyone sprawl over his furniture and his floor. Slurred good nights and whispered conversations in the dark. He had fallen asleep before Franklin finished telling everybody about the benefits of keeping a window open at night. 

***

Adams woke up in a cold sweat from his usual nightmare.

It was the one where Abigail and the children were hurt and dying and he couldn't do anything to prevent it. The one where the residual futility haunted him for days when he could not find enough work to keep him preoccupied from thinking about his worst fears. 

Upon waking from such nightmares, he would stare into the dark, listening intently for anything to distract him from concentrating upon his fear. He welcomed the drunken conversations that wafted over from across the street, welcomed the heavy footfalls that staggered past his door. 

What troubled him the most was when he could not hear anything upon waking up, because silence allowed him to think, and thinking was the last thing he wanted to do during those times. 

This time, however, he had company. Glancing about him, he saw Hall dozing to his right and Dickinson sleeping to his left, their faces were partially flattened against his pillows. Hall had cast an arm over his chest, so Adams removed it gently and dropped it back over on the other man's side. As for Dickinson, he had somehow managed to entangle his legs in all the covers. Somehow, this did not surprise Adams. It seemed like something Dickinson would do. He carefully extricated the bedclothes from Dickinson's legs, causing the other man to stir slightly, but Dickinson did not wake.

Spreading the covers more evenly between them all, Adams sat up to look around the room.

As expected, Franklin had commandeered the couch. Feet propped on the armrest, he looked perfectly at peace with the world. On the floor next to him were the Southerners, limbs flung haphazardly over the winter blankets and each other. For some reason, Lee reminded him of Hopkins' dog. They were similarly affectionate and lanky creatures. The way Lee curled up against Jefferson was very much like a loyal hound indeed, and Adams smiled at the image. 

He almost screamed when Dickinson suddenly appeared next to him, yawning.

"Good God, man," Adams muttered. "You startled me."

"Sorry," Dickinson whispered. He brought his knee to his chest and folded his arms over the knee. Resting his cheek against the topmost arm, he looked over at Adams. "Why are you awake?"

"Bad dream. You?"

"Same."

Adams rearranged his limbs to imitate Dickinson's position. It was surprisingly comfortable. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

He nodded, shifting his cheek against his arm. "That's all right." 

"What about you?" 

"I'd rather not," Adams answered. "That would mean I'd have to think about it."

Dickinson seemed to understand. "Those are the worst kind."

They looked at each other, waiting. Adams tried to think of something else to say. Something to take his mind off his darker thoughts. 

"Dickinson?"

"Yes, Adams."

"Can you tell me something?"

"Certainly."

"...Did you really like Tom's beer?"

Dickinson chuckled. Adams could see his shoulders shake in the dark. "It was tolerable. An acquired taste for less refined palates, I'm sure."

"Like hell it is. A more reasonable explanation would be that you and Tom both have _abnormal_ palates."

"But of course. Abnormally superior ones."

"Superior ones my arse."

"Crude, Adams."

They smiled at each other.

"Ugh, you two," came a sleepy groan from the floor. Rutledge lifted his head to glare at them. "I was dreaming of Charleston and my lovely wife's lovely assets until I heard your churlish voices interrupt my slumber. Instead of Mrs. Rutledge's lovely voice telling me how fantastically charming and brilliant I am, I had to hear you two banter warmly to one another. You've literally disgusted me awake."

Dickinson snickered. "Not the proper use of the word, Neddy. 'Disgusted' is an adjective, not a--"

"I don't _care_ ," Rutledge griped. "Sleep! Now!" 

And with an irritated flounce, he lowered his head and turned his back to them, almost elbowing Jefferson in the stomach as he did so.

Adams and Dickinson looked at one another, giggling softly.

"Figures that's what he dreams about," Adams said. "As if praising himself weren't enough."

"It's never enough for Neddy. He'd have the whole world sing his praises if he could."

Adams glanced back at the pillows, where Hall still slept serenely, completely oblivious to all that had transpired. "We'd probably better go back to sleep. I have a feeling our heads will loathe us in the morning. Or we will loathe our heads. One of the two."

Dickinson's mouth settled into the lopsided smile with which Adams was so familiar. "Feeling better, then?"

"Much better."

They stretched back out on the bed. 

"Good night, Adams."

"Good night, Dickinson."

Adams resolutely closed his eyes. All in all, he supposed, it had been a good day. 

* * *

_V. Morning._

In the morning, Adams awoke with a musty taste in his mouth and a rather pressing headache. The first thing he saw was Dickinson sitting up and reading with his back against the headboard. Adams didn't think much of it at first. He kept several books by his bedside table, and, distracted by his headache, didn't really notice which book it was.

"Good morning, Dickinson."

"Morning, Adams." Dickinson flipped a page over.

"What are you reading?"

"Something very interesting."

Adams propped himself up on one of his elbows. "Let me see."

"You've already seen it."

" _Obviously_ , man, these are my books after all." Dickinson had half-turned away from him, hands obscuring the cover, so Adams couldn't identify the book. "Which one is it?"

Dickinson glanced back at Adams with a sly smile. "Shall I read aloud a portion?"

"Fine, fine."

"Ahem. 'Mr. Dickinson is a very modest man, and very ingenious as well as agreeable--"

"Damn it, Dickinson, you will return my diary _this instant_ \--!"

Calmly, the other man stuck out a hand to hold Adams at bay as he kept on reading: "--he has an _excellent_ heart, and the cause of his country lies near it.'" Finished, he snapped the diary shut and returned it to the bedside table.

"That was _private_ ," Adams muttered, face flaming.

"My apologies," said Dickinson. "It's nice knowing I have an excellent heart, though."

"I hate you."

"I know," said Dickinson brightly. "Ready for breakfast?"

"After everyone else awakes, yes." Adams scrutinized him, frowning slightly. "How the hell can you be so chipper after last night? My skull's threatening mutiny from the rest of my body at present."

"Well, there were two possible explanations," Dickinson mused. "I could just have a greater tolerance for alcohol than you do. Or it could be some unique quality in Jefferson's beer."

"...I doubt it's the beer."

Dickinson grinned. "I suppose I just have a superior alcohol tolerance, then."

"Ugh," Adams groaned. "Need more breakfast and less smugness. I'll go wake the others." He tried climbing over the other man, then gave up. Coordination was not on his side on such mornings. "Get out of my bed, Dickinson."

Giggles came from the couch. "Now that's a sentence I never expected to hear!"

As Dickinson rolled out of the bed, chuckling, Adams rolled his eyes. "And a good morning to you, Franklin."

***

Breakfast was a quiet affair. As he ate, Adams thought about how everyone would go their separate ways, more or less, when the war ended. People in and out of each other's lives, sometimes meeting again for political reasons, sometimes for social ones. All of them would turn into faded memories at some point. It was a sobering thought. He chewed his sausage thoughtfully as he wondered who would disappear from his life and who would remain. 

***

As they left the tavern, Dickinson turned to him with a grin.

"Are you going to write about this in your _diary_ , Adams?"

"Oh, Good God. You are never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Probably not. I'll keep those words in my heart forever, Adams. My excellent heart."

"Good God," Adams repeated, shaking his head. Then he stopped walking. A thought occurred to him. He took off his hat and looked at it. "This is yours, by the way."

"I know."

They stood in the middle of the street, both looking at the hat in Adams' hands, and Adams wondered if he would be told to keep it. He thought he just might cry a little if that happened, because it would be too much, that stupid hat with the gold-colored trim and the ridiculous bow, a last souvenir from a man he might never again see alive.

Luckily, Dickinson saved him from such a sentimental fate by snatching the hat out of Adams' hands. Glancing up, he saw Dickinson grin like a schoolboy as he tucked his spare hat under his arm.

"Doesn't fit you," Dickinson said cockily, and suddenly they started laughing, hard, as if this were the funniest thing in the world. 

Rutledge walked past them, shaking his head in bewilderment. 

Adams was still laughing when Dickinson suddenly pulled him into a warm bear hug, almost knocking the wind out of him with the force of it. He blinked, stunned, and gripped the fabric of Dickinson's coat in his hand. 

Then Dickinson pulled back, smile faltering slightly before it settled back into the lopsided angle that Adams was so used to seeing. 

"Take care, madman." 

Adams nodded. 

"Take care," he replied, and he meant it.

 


End file.
